All children are innocent
by Estoma
Summary: "You just know he's naked under his silky, white robe, and you just know he's going to drop it to the floor in a moment." The first time Finnick is sold for sex. Winner of the Caesar's Palace oneshot challenge. Cover image by AprilLittle.


**Author's note: For the Caesar's Palace one shot challenge. Prompt: Innocence. **

**For those of you who have read my writing, this is an expansion of the final chapter in ****_one day, you're innocent_**** because it just deserved more words about it. It's a little AU compared to my other fics featuring Finnick: ****_Depraved and Devious_****, and ****_Oysters._**** I hope you enjoy it, regardless. **

"I want to see you all at once, would you get undressed?" he says to you, as he slips out the door.

"Anything you want," you reply. Your voice sounds strange; not like your district drawl, the one the Capitol so loved, or the smooth, provocative tone you put on for the interviews because your mentors told you it might be your ticket home. That was a year ago. You try for that, but you don't quite meet the mark, and your smile feels wooden, even to you.

Your hands shake as you undress yourself. The buttons on your sea-green blazer suddenly seem the size of pinheads, and your fingers feel clumsy. Never once did your hands tremble when they were wrapped around the handle of your golden trident, or when they pulled a net, tight, contorting the girl from 1 into a wicked shape, and a perfect target. You kept tightening it until she screamed and her joints bent and stretched the wrong way. But now it takes you three times to undo a button.

When the jacket comes off, you fold it neatly and place it on the dressing table opposite the wide, low bed. The bed draws your eye, like a festering sore. You have similar trouble with the buttons of your shirt, and you fold it the same way. It's silly, you know, but you make your movements slower because delaying what's to come for even a few more minutes is worth it.

Finally, you stand naked in the middle of the bedroom. _His_ bedroom. Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you wonder if you're meant to call him in with a seductive purr, like you worked on with Sherry, your escort, for hours on end. But you don't do it. Instead, though the temperature is warm in the bedroom, you wrap your arms around your chest, but you can't stop trembling.

Before you left the tribute tower, Sherry went over how you should act, what you should say, and your mentors too. But as you got into the sleek, dark car outside the tribute tower, Mags stopped you, reaching out to tap your arm with her cane.

"Forget all that, just be yourself, alright?" she had said. "That's who they want. Not some silly, Capitol git. You understand?"

At the time, you nodded, but right now you'd rather be that Capitol product, because you can't even remember what you're really like. Before the games, you were in training, but you weren't really considering volunteering. You only entered the career program because your friends did, and it got you out of school three days a week. It was some extra money for the family, too. But still, you were good at the weapons; the knives, and spears, the swords, and you liked the satisfaction of plunging them into the dummy, and hitting the target just-so. You never thought you'd actually use them.

Everything's got all confused in your head, after a year of interviews with the Capitol, a year of cameras flashing, and plastering a false grin on your face every time you step outside. Sometimes, you can hardly remember the boy who used to dive for sea stars at the pier in Bomb Bay, and return them to the water once he'd finished looking. That boy was left in the arena, or maybe the train, or even the reaping stage, like a forgotten handkerchief.

So you try to stop your trembling, and you wait with your hands tucked under your armpits. Arranging your face into a smile takes three tries, and each is more insincere than the last. And then the door opens.

You just know he's naked under his silky, white robe, and you just know he's going to drop it to the floor in a moment. He'll put his hands on you, places only you should touch, or shouldn't be touched at all, and you'll have to do the same to him, and feel his skin on yours, and his hot breath on your neck.

Slowly, you drop your arms to your sides. You stand like a soldier at attention. You know you should be sprawled on the bed, or at least, looking relaxed, but this is really the best you can do. It's better than running, or curling yourself into a ball and praying for it to be over.

His eyes on you feel like a physical touch. A shiver follows across your skin, as if he's already touching you. You keep your eyes down, because you're terrified to meet his and see the lust there, as his gaze traverses over your skin. When you do chance to raise your eyes, you do meet his and you open your mouth in an involuntary gasp. He just looks sad, disappointed.

Cinna shakes his head and tightens the belt around his robe. "Finnick, put your clothes back on, please."

"Wh-what?" you stammer, and suddenly your heart is beating twice as fast, because this fear is twice, ten, a hundred fold worse. Before Cinna said that, you were the only one who was going to suffer. Now, it's everyone you know. "Did I do something-"

"No, Finnick," he says softly, "you didn't go anything wrong. Get dressed, and come to the kitchen, please."

When you dress this time, your hands shake so much that you really can't manage the buttons. While you'd much rather cover yourself, you leave your shirt unbuttoned and just tug it shut. You hold it closed around you as you take a seat, nervously, at the kitchen counter. The stool scrapes on the tile, and you wince.

There's a bowl of fruit halfway down the table, and you keep your eyes fixed on that, even though you can't name half of that. It's better than looking at Cinna, who busies himself at the gleaming coffee machine.

"Would you like a hot drink?" he asks, in his quiet manner.

"Please," you respond, not because you do want one, but because you don't dare to be rude and make things worse than they already are. And it is nice to wrap your hands around something warm and solid.

Cinna drags a stool over and sits down opposite you, cradling his own mug of coffee. He takes a few sips before he fixes his steady gaze on you.

"Finnick, look at me, please," he says. When you do, he shakes his head, and you can't miss his small sigh. "You're only fifteen, aren't you?"

"Yes." Your voice isn't too steady, and you try to cover it with a sip of bitter coffee. You think it needs more sugar to make it at least drinkable, but you don't say that.

"God, that's so young," Cinna says vehemently, and you swallow involuntarily, shying away from his anger. "I'm a fool, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking." You realise his anger is directed at himself, not you.

"You don't want me to…to…" You can't quite make yourself say the words, but your mind is filled with graphic images that make you shiver again.

"No, no. God, I shouldn't have…fifteen, so young. I remember that age…" he trails off.

You aren't exactly sure what's going on, but you don't want to ask him. You don't dare ask if it's true that you, and your family are off the hook, even just for one night.

Unexpectedly, you catch Cinna's eye, and his gaze is so tender, so remorseful, that it makes you blush. Maybe, you think, he isn't so bad, even if he was going to pay for your body. Cinna smiles slightly.

"I'll tell the representatives at Victor Liaisons that I had a lovely time with you. And you'd better stay the night, so nobody asks questions."

"Thank you," you mumble, and just for a moment, your voice sounds so young again, like last year, before you stood on the stage and told everyone you'd be back in a month.

Then when Cinna smiles broadly, it takes you completely by surprise. You can't help but smile tentatively in return.

"You're too young for coffee," he says, shaking his head, "can I make you a hot chocolate instead?"


End file.
